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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23791525">Fool’s Gold</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmpressCirque/pseuds/EmpressCirque'>EmpressCirque</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>BioShock 1 &amp; 2 (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, As raphae11e put it:, Atlas isn’t as big of an asshole as BAS, Atlas realizes he has feelings and has a Bad Time, Belief you own something does not equal love, Bisexual Female Character, Bisexual Male Character, Burial at Sea is only mildly referenced, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Cheating, Child Abuse, Child Death, Civil War (BioShock), Dubious Consent, Everyone is Bisexual, Except not because Moira isn’t real, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fake Fluff, Fontaine doesn’t understand how emotions work, Fontaine isn’t in love but thinks he is?, Found Family, Friendship, M/M, Multi, No BioShock Infinite, Polyamory, Pre-Civil War (BioShock), Romance, Serious Injuries, Slow Burn, This sounds fluffier than it is, Threats of Violence, Torture</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 22:27:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,002</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23791525</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmpressCirque/pseuds/EmpressCirque</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>They’re cast in a play that ends in tragedy - Rapture has been falling long before the rise of Atlas. Maybe she’s a fool to believe he can change the role she has been cast, but Eva can’t help the hope he brings. </p><p>Cohen would be proud of the poetic way she presents it.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Atlas (BioShock)/Original Female Character(s), Atlas/Jack (BioShock), Frank Fontaine/Jack, Frank Fontaine/Original Female Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Fool’s Gold</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Chapter TWs: Violence against women, threats of violence, threats of death.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>She stares into the eyes of the bare and it stares right back; once, Eva might have been smart enough to fear the creature before her, to turn and run to some semblance of safety that rested behind her, but its gaze - now glazed over and dead - threaten no malice to her. If anything the ferocity of the creature has been replaced with an air of sadness that chokes anyone who dares to stand to close. The stuffed corpse, standing almost double her height, guards the grand windows behind it without a sound, looking as invincible as she thinks it must have felt before a creature small enough to be prey had struck it down. She wonders then, if it had been shocked, maybe even frightened - eyes wide, heart pounding, and lungs aching for air - when the end had come and the hunter had stood over it like some sort of victor. The thought makes the hairs on her neck rise and from the corner of her eyes, she sees the true threat in the room approach her.</p><p>Frank Fontaine circles her once, his eyes scanning her form as she does. His gaze is as cold as the water surrounding him, but twice as bright. It is the most frightening thing she has seen in her nine years below the surface, she decides without a thought of hesitation.</p><p>His manner is like that of a hungry shark - his gaze focused on her and smelling every drop of fear that bleeds from her flesh. She cannot help but wonder from where he is going to attack - how quickly will she succumb, or will she be left begging for oblivion? He leers at her from the side, those bright blue eyes more haunting than the blackness that overcomes predators beneath the surface - she has seen a shark feed many times. Watched the way their teeth sink into flesh and tear sharper than knives, leaving only blood in their wake. Fontaine is different. The evidence he leaves is deliberate: precise. Something catches in her throat.</p><p>Eyes forward, she can feel her heart racing in her chest, hear the beat in her ears. Her vision fades just at the edges and she wonders if fear is enough to send a person to their grave. He stops and the sound of his polished, perfect shoes against the wood nearly makes her jump from her skin. She breaths out, tells herself not to let him win the game. He is behind her and his stillness brings a haunting silence to the room (maybe all of Rapture, she thinks). Every ounce of control is his and her fingers dig into her pants, as though begging to escape into the flesh beneath.</p><p>There is no hiding from the boogie man.</p><p>“Edna,” she jerks forward, his voice so loud in her ears that she barely even registers his mistake (not a mistake, she corrects, a deliberate irritation), “You got balls, kid. More than half the men workin’ on these docks. Chatting it up with Sullivan’s boys on my time? I’d ask if you got a death wish, but I’m a reasonable man. Explain.”</p><p>Her voice vanishes, slips down into her stomach until she is choking on the emptiness within her. She can only keep her eyes forward - focus on each breath as though it is her last. He moves then, comes to face her and his hand crushes against her jaw until his fingers are pressing into the bone beneath. Her eyes are forced forward, locked into his the same way Doctor Lamb locks into her patient’s during a particularly draining session. He is far from stupid: he’ll leave his mark without warranting an unwanted trip to Medical. She hates him, wishes he would just slip up this once if only for her own sick amusement.</p><p>“Answer me.”</p><p>As she tries to move, to will words out of her mouth, she realizes her silence has been forced. His grip is too firm and suddenly the tightness in her chest seems to suck away the air from her lungs - she cannot breath. She is terrified. There is a sick delight in Fontaine’s eyes, though it does not make itself known beyond that. She imagines any amusement he could express would be corrupt and cruel. His grip tightens.</p><p>She cries out in discomfort, barely managing to slip through her gritted teeth, forced together by his hand. Finally, that cruel grin she imagined reaches his face, though his teeth shine like a hungry wolf’s, “Good. We’re finally gettin’ somewhere.”</p><p>Suddenly, a defiance fills her and she feels the twitching in her fingers still, the desire to break free replaced by the desire to wipe that look from his face, “They were asking questions. Wanted to know what I’ve seen, but despite what some think, I’m not stupid enough to betray you.”</p><p>He relents, pleased with her answer, even if she can see a spark in his eye that screams of annoyance. Fontaine didn’t want an answer, no really; what he wanted was her to be quacking on the floor like a dying fish. To fight a pointless battle, not to inch ever closer to salvation. Finally, he lets her go.</p><p>It barely registers that her fingers have begun to gently massage the ache beneath her skin, “I’m not a smuggler for the same reason.”</p><p>Fontaine isn’t oblivious - a trait that she cannot help but think he possesses where Andrew Ryan does not. Both men are intelligent, deadly and so fierce in what they want that she is sure their feud will be the end of Rapture unless someone takes the necessary plunge, but Andrew Ryan is too stuck in his ways. Frank Fontaine is a giant and she might compare him to Atlas, the man carrying Rapture on his shoulders, but he is not so selfless. No is he suffering any punishment. Neither is Ryan. It briefly strikes her how similar the men are before she focuses back on the situation (the man) before her.</p><p>Andrew Ryan rules with a mockery of rules and regulations, while Fontaine rules with fear. A weapon in itself and stronger than any other known force she can imagine. He wields it with such skill that she cannot ever imagine a time that this man has been anything but cruel and she suddenly feels pity for him. She has heard it is lonely at the top and she wonders if he cares at all.</p><p>Peach once said that the devil himself feared Fontaine, so maybe he isn’t human after all.</p><p>He sighs, loudly enough to bring her eyes up and she freezes, just slightly, but enough for him to grin again, as he begins to search his jacket pocket. The formality doesn’t suit him, it fits him so well and yet she feels as if there’s something he hides beneath business-like appearance. She wonders when the last time he’s allowed his hands to finish his own dirty work was and can tell, just sense, by the way he carries himself that he wants nothing more. He pulls a cigar free and she feels the knot in her stomach ease - it isn’t a gun.</p><p>“You ain’t a smuggler, sure,” he says, pulling out a lighter next. She can see the gleam of initials, the carved elegance of ‘F.G.’ and briefly wonders what who that could possibly be. Had Fontaine changed his name once upon a time? “Smugglers aren’t so stupid as to get mixed up with Ryan’s men for even a second on my time. Hell, they wouldn’t be so brave as to come back alive if they could help it.”</p><p>There’s the metallic flick of the lighter before the orange (almost yellow) flame is brought up to light his cigar. The smell of whatever rests within hits her nose quickly and begins to fill the room and before he can pull the flame away, let it die by his hand, it ignites the shadows of his face, playing off the ocean around them and twisting his features back and forth until it is impossible to separate the man from the beast. From the Devil himself.</p><p>“If you were going to kill me,” she says, hesitantly, knowing that she already is walking a thin line, “you would have done it already.”</p><p>A knowing look crosses his face, shines in his eyes as he snaps the lighter closed. Her sudden boldness to confirm what they both know has stepped her closer to him in the game he is forcing her to play. Unacceptable, that she thinks to even try to catch him. So, he chuckles and if one wasn’t to listen closely enough, it may even sound amused (kind) and the way his voice lifts, almost pleased, would trick anyone outsider unfamiliar with him watching, “And you’re willing to bet on that, kid?”</p><p>“A dead body raises more questions - especially after Sullivan’s men approached me,” it’s weak reasoning. She’d heard what had happened to Timmy, how Sullivan and his men had been willing to string him up and fry him, but they’re her safest bet. Whatever they can do won’t have anything on Fontaine. “Ryan would know he’s getting to you.”</p><p>“What makes you think I give a damn what Andrew Fucking Ryan thinks?”</p><p>Her sudden attitude may end with her floating in the briny deep, a block of concrete tied painfully around her ankles, but the momentary loss of patience tells her she at least has found an edge. If she’s careful, she might make it out alive. He watches her now, something new in his eyes that she can’t place and it makes a pressure build in her lungs that threatens to choke the oxygen from her. His temper is dangerous, almost legendary, amongst the workers - calm to a point until he can twist the knife into your back.</p><p>He laughs, firmly pats her cheek and the sudden pressure makes her skin string, reminding her of his previous hold on her. The drastic change in mood leaves her confidence in question. The bear behind him suddenly looks more menacing.</p><p>Fontaine steps back until he’s resting all too casually against his desk and even when he has been brought down to almost (why only now was she realizing just how tall her was) down to her level, she feels smaller and vulnerable. Somewhere deep in her mind, the part that still desires to fight, she recognizes his tactics; the profit of her fear. She isn’t going to be talking to Ryan when she walks out (please, she begs, please let me walk out) of this office, but whispers will spread amongst those around him and whatever fate befalls her will only serve as a reminder of the power of Frank Fontaine.</p><p>Every tragedy left in his wake serves him more and more. If he wins the struggle he has begun with Ryan, no one will make it through Rapture alive unless they bend to his will. That’s the final fault of Andrew Ryan, he lets his traitors live (Persephone, she hears whispered between the masses, and she has no desires to end up mixed up with whatever that could mean).</p><p>The shadows on his face move slower now and if she could focus properly, she would find it suitable for the careful way he has begun to study her. The occasional glow of light that highlights his sharp features only emphasizes his quiet, but makes the weight of his thoughts fall heavy on her and grip like a vice. He continues like that for some time, watching her with what she can’t place (distaste, curiosity? Both?) and she begins to count each beat of her heart to ensure that she is still breathing properly.</p><p>“How long have you been workin’ here?” The question is smooth, almost said with a lack of interest that makes her question if he expects an answer.</p><p>She hesitates for a moment, “Fifty-one.”</p><p>She can feel her fingers digging into the fabric of her pants, her skin asking once again for permission to take cover and hide deep within the very fibers of the cloth. Her defiance still rests in the forefront of her mind, but she cannot hide the desire to run from the situation she has found herself in. If only she could comply.</p><p>He whistles, almost sounding impressed when he speaks, “That’s what? Seven years? I’m impressed you haven’t managed to get yourself into more trouble with that attitude of yours. A smart person, like you pretend you are, wouldn’t go running their mouth at the man in charge, but hey, I gotta say, I respect your bravado, Eva.”</p><p>Fontaine’s use of her name sounds so foreign, so sudden that her mouth falls open to argue that it isn’t her name at all (she shudders to think that he could steal something so simple from her so quickly). She’s aware enough to realize he’s mocking her, but all she can do is carefully close her mouth once more before he can comment that she looks shocked. The ice she is on is growing thinner and he continues, “I’m the man you got to thank for givin’ you an opportunity at all, for signing the checks that put food on your table. You agree? This attitude you got with me doesn’t do anything for you but cause trouble.</p><p>“From the moment you walked through the door, begging whatever sorry excuse for a person for a job, I’ve owned you. No matter what happens, I own you because the moment I hear you talkin’ something I don’t like, it’ll be the last thing you ever do. Nobody fucks with Fontaine, got it?”</p><p>The silence that answers him, that rests between them as he stands and rounds his desk to sit, fills the room until she is sure that it makes a mockery of what she had thought the power of the silence before held. His voice shatters the illusion and he says, curtly, “You’re fired.”</p><p>“What?” She asks, a stupid question that makes that horrid smile tug at the edges of his lips. It would be impossible to not hear what he had said and yet the way it hits her so suddenly makes her question herself. He must just revel in that fact.</p><p>“You heard me, you half-brained broad. You’re fired.”</p><p>Her legs nearly collapse beneath her and it takes all of her willpower to keep from falling onto the floor. She is sure that the burning in the back of her throat is bile, threatening to spill from her mouth and make a mess of his polished floors. It’s the only effect on her she lets him see and she fights back the frustrated tears - she had come so far, been so close to having the upper hand. Fontaine lead her there though and she was foolish to think it was anything more than his greater plan - after all, the brief sign of victory would only make the pain greater. So, she refuses to let him see how much the loss of the game has had on her, to allow Fontaine to revel in the victory he always had.</p><p>She steadies her hands, clenches her fists one final time before straightening her back and smiling, as much as it shakes, says, “I’ll go pack my things.”</p><p>It sounds more blasé than she expects it to, but the look on his face, the moment the facade just ever so slightly cracks, is enough to have her forcing back a grin. She lost the battle, but he won’t take her prisoner so easily. It’s that attitude he warned her about and she’ll be damned if she walks out of here without giving him a final taste of just how much other’s can fight him. The looming threat of death be damned.</p><p>“See to it that you do,” there’s acid in his voice, as much as he tries to hide that she has any effect on him. He’s human after all and Fontaine’s impatience is just as legendary as his anger. If he doesn’t have his threats to make her stop, he’ll use his fists, but he thinks himself a fair man. For now, he’ll give her a head-start. “Before I change my mind.”</p><p>It’s her queue to leave and she carefully turns, making sure that the shaking in her legs won’t give her away. She’s been bold enough at this point, might as well take it out the door. As her hand grips the doorknob, she waits, just a second, to see if the knife to the back will come - if perhaps the head-start she has won’t be enough. There’s a heavy blanket of tension in the air and it feels as if the door weighs a hundred pounds as she pulls it open. She turns, loud enough that he can hear the force of the metal as she pulls and frees herself from the atmosphere inside. It closes with a small bang.</p><p>The murky air of the wharf greets her and she breath in deep, welcoming it more than the tainted air inside the office. The slap in the face is what she needs to come undone, to take a few shaking steps forward before collapsing to the dirty floor beneath her. The tears flow freely, the fright in her body spilling out and causing her to choke. She hopes Fontaine can’t hear her, but to hell with if he can. She’s earned this moment of weakness after the fight she gave.</p><p>She won’t miss this place - won’t miss the constant reminder that he presence there is only tolerated to a point and that any step out of line could end her. Her life is worth more than the promise of food on the table, as he put it. She’s survived this long. Fuck the smell of dead fish, fuck the blood that somehow seemed to always be under her nails despite the gloves on her hands, and most importantly fuck Frank Fontaine.</p>
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